Once more, once more, my Mary dear, I sit by that lone stream, Where first within thy timid ear I breathed love’s burning dream. The birds we loved still tell their tale Of music, on each spray, And still the wild-rose decks the vale— But thou art far away. In vain thy vanished form I seek, By wood and stream and dell, And tears of anguish bathe my cheek Where tears of rapture fell; And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers Dear thoughts my soul employ, For in the memories of past hours There is a mournful joy. Upon the air thy gentle words Around me seemed to thrill, Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords When all the winds are still, Or like the low and soul-like swell Of that wild spirit-tone, Which haunts the hollow of the bell When its sad chime is done. I seem to hear thee speak my name In sweet low murmurs now; I seem to feel thy breath of flame Upon my cheek and brow; On my cold lips I feel thy kiss, Thy heart to mine is laid— Alas, that such a dream of bliss Like other dreams must fade!
Memories
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Once more, once more, my Mary dear, I sit by that lone stream, Where first within thy timid ear I breathed love’s burning dream. The birds we loved still tell their tale Of music, on each spray, And still the wild-rose decks the vale— But thou art far away. In vain thy vanished form I...